Killing the Global Rooster

In Brazil while haggling for discounts, some vendors would spend two to three hours leading me to believe that I was getting a markdown only to find out that the price had remained the same. “It’s worth killing the rooster,” they’d say. To which I’d reply, “I don’t own any poultry.” Unimpressed with my sarcastic commentaries, I’d be forced to throw in a snog to sweeten the deal. Nothing full-frontal. Well, unless the merchant was a gatinho :)

After seven months in Bahia and Rio I’d returned to Berkeley ready to bargain the hell out of any potential purchase. At Macy’s, Ross or Target I’d glance at the ticket price and be determined to pay at least half of it. At these stores most shoppers respond to the cash register tally by pulling out a credit card, check book or appropriate amount of cash. However, when the Target cashier announced the total of $71.69 I pulled out two 20’s and a 10 and said, “How about I give you fifty dollars and we call it a day?” The lady thought I was joking, though when she realized I was serious she proceeded to withdraw $21.69 worth of merchandise from the white plastic bags and smiled while declaring, “Now we have a deal.”

So it turns out that at these chain stores the prices are non-negotiable. Unless you’re one of those super cheapskates who switches tags at discount stores or pulls out threads on random garments and then demands a 10% discount. Me, on the other hand, I have discovered that at certain independent, foreign-run establishments pricings may be open for discussion.

Take this Tibetan shop on Shattuck for example, which is run by a man I like to refer to as “The Town Flirt”. The first time I went into his small business of jewelry heaven, the bashful Tibetan introduced himself and invited me to his apartment for tea. Or maybe it was weed. He mentioned something about leaves or trees, although I was completely sidetracked by the most fantastic ring I’d even eyed. I admired the mulit-hued glass fragments enclosed over a sterling band and thought that while many girls dream of owning diamond rings, I’d surely be content with this forty dollar piece of finger art. Though I thought 40 bucks was a bit steep for a ring that was much like its 20 dollar glass cousins sold on Telegraph. But this one was different.

The charming shop owner, who must have interpreted a sign of flirtation during my thirty second ringed reverie, leaned in to kiss me. Now, had I not been trained in the art of snog dodging during my escapades in Brazil I might have fallen onto the stacks of bangles and prayer beads. Instead I backed away, all of a sudden so conscious of the fact that I was the only one in the store and he was standing in the path to the exit. Then I got a little closer and was like, wait a minute, does this mean I get a price cut?

Since opening up his little spot in Downtown Berkeley, I have seen him on the curb in front of his store dallying with all the Cal girls. I would walk on the other side of the street trying to master a plan to acquire that ring. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the mullah; I just didn’t want anyone’s saliva to go along with it. In fact, it took me a good year before I got the damn thing. One day I convinced my friend to accompany to the store, and while she occupied the owner’s attention, I dove into the ring bowl, pulled out my treasure, smacked two twenties on the counter and made a dash for it.

After settling in he must have found other customers to kiss because he doesn’t bother me anymore. You might even call us friends now, though the motherfucker refuses to reduce the prices on any of his merchandise. This might not be such a problem in a town with a million other South East Asian shops, but this man has the best jewelry in the East Bay, so I’m always coming back for more. He frequently invites his loyal patrons to his home for a late night smoke-out. Although I’m not a smoker, I’m often compelled to see if, while high, he might finally give me a break.

I have learned that as my Portuguese professor once said to me, “If you don’t cry, you don’t suckle.” Which is much like what Americans mean when they say in a less breasty way, “Ask and you shall receive.” Although one might not always get what they want, it sure is an adventure trying.